Chapter 3 - THE YELLOW TICKET
Daniel stared at the valet ticket. The red ink of his wife’s initials looked like fresh blood in the dim light of the loading dock.
“She’s been dead for two weeks,” Daniel whispered, his voice cracking for the first time. “Why does the man who took your brother have her valet ticket?”
“We can’t stay here,” I said, gripping the St. Christopher medal so hard the silver dug into my palm. “They heard the gunshots upstairs. The police are coming. And those men are right behind us.”
Daniel snapped out of it. The mafia boss returned.
He hauled the driver’s body out of the front seat, laying his loyal man gently on the concrete. Then he got behind the wheel.
“Get in the back,” he ordered. “Keep the baby low.”
I climbed into the back seat, shielding Leo with my body. Daniel threw the armored SUV into gear and slammed on the gas. We tore out of the loading dock, smashing through the wooden security barrier and skidding onto the rain-slicked streets of Chicago.
Sirens wailed in the distance.
I looked down at Leo. He was fast asleep, utterly unaware of the chaos surrounding him.
“Where are we going?” I asked, watching the city lights blur past the tinted windows.
“A safe house in the South Loop,” Daniel said, his eyes glued to the rearview mirror. “Nobody knows about it except me.”
“And Michael,” I said.
Daniel’s eyes met mine in the mirror. “What?”
“The kidnappers want me,” I said, trying to piece it together. “They left my brother’s necklace on a dead man. They left your wife’s parking ticket. My brother didn’t just owe your men money, Daniel. He was involved with your wife.”
The SUV swerved slightly. Daniel’s grip on the steering wheel turned his knuckles white.
“Watch your mouth, Rachel.”
“I’m not saying they had an affair!” I snapped, my fear turning into defensive anger. “I’m saying he was working for her. Michael was a mechanic. He fixed exotic cars. Six months ago, he told me he got a private gig for a wealthy woman in Gold Coast. He wouldn’t tell me her name. He just said she tipped in hundred-dollar bills and always looked terrified.”
Daniel hit the brakes, pulling the heavy SUV into a dark, abandoned parking garage under an old industrial building. He killed the engine.
The silence in the car was suffocating.
He turned around in his seat to face me.
“Camille wasn’t terrified of anything,” Daniel said defensively.
“Then why was she hiring a private mechanic instead of using your family’s fleet?” I asked.
Daniel didn’t have an answer. He looked at the yellow valet ticket in his hand.
“What’s the address on the ticket?” I asked.
Daniel held it up to the dim streetlamp light filtering in. “It’s a long-term underground garage. Near O’Hare airport.”
He looked at me. The reality of what that meant settled over both of us at the same time.
You don’t park a car in a long-term lot near the airport unless you are planning to leave.
“She was running,” I whispered.
“No.” Daniel shook his head, his jaw tight. “We were happy. We were building a nursery. She loved me.”
“She was pregnant,” I said gently, looking down at Leo. “If someone in your family was threatening her… maybe she realized she couldn’t raise a child in this life.”
Daniel stared at his son. A heavy, broken expression washed over his face.
“If she was running,” Daniel said slowly, “then the ambush wasn’t a hit on our family. It was an execution. Someone found out she was leaving and stopped her.”
My brother’s bruised face flashed in my mind. “And Michael helped her prepare the car. That’s why they have him. He knows where the car is.”
“We need to get to that garage,” Daniel said, starting the engine again.
“Wait,” I said. I pulled the St. Christopher medal out of my pocket.
When I had gripped it tightly earlier, I had felt something stiff inside the small silver locket. Michael and I used to put tiny photos in it when we were kids.
I dug my fingernail into the side clasp and popped the locket open.
Inside wasn’t a photo.
It was a tiny, tightly folded piece of paper.
I carefully unfolded it. It was a receipt for a safety deposit box at a downtown bank.
But it wasn’t Michael’s name on the receipt.
It was Silas Russo. Daniel’s uncle.
“Daniel,” I said, my voice shaking. I handed him the receipt.
Daniel looked at it, and the color drained from his face completely.
Because stamped at the bottom of the receipt was a date. The box had been opened exactly one hour before Camille was murdered.
May you like
And written in pen across the bottom were four words in Michael’s handwriting.
Silas ordered the hit.
